


Under Lock and Key

by exbex



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Awkwardness, Blow Jobs, Fluff and Smut, Handcuffs, M/M, Snark, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-26
Updated: 2014-10-26
Packaged: 2018-02-22 16:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2513966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/exbex/pseuds/exbex





	Under Lock and Key

It’s a fundamental difference between the two of them; Victor prefers to focus on results, if the ends justify the means, whereas Sherlock can’t help but focus on the methods. 

Victor can understand it; shoddy methods can lead to disastrous results, particularly in Sherlock’s line of work. It’s why he’s staying silent as Sherlock seethes and rants, loudly, over how the case was nearly lost. It’s why he can sit and wait patiently before trying to distract Sherlock away from the issue, to soothe his nerves.

It’s the glint of metal from Sherlock’s coat pocket that plants the germ of an idea in Victor’s mind. “Are those Greg’s?”

Sherlock looks down as he’s unwinding his scarf. “Yes, he was being annoying, so I pick-pocketed him.” Sherlock extracts the handcuffs and tosses them to Victor, seemingly casually.

Victor is not easily fooled. He catches the cuffs easily, barely removing his eyes from Sherlock as he shucks his coat, toes off his shoes, and heads for his chair.

“Stop.” Victor’s tone is the one that brooks no argument. Sherlock responds with a raised eyebrow, but the way the tip of his tongue darts between his lips and the fact that he acquiesces without missing a beat reveals his true feelings.

Victor knows that Sherlock would like more verbal commands, but he chooses instead to walk slowly over to Sherlock, pull his hands behind his back, and secure his wrists with the cuffs.

Victor keeps one hand on Sherlock’s hip as he moves to Sherlock’s front. Stalling isn’t just teasing; he’s calculating his course of action. He could have Sherlock on his knees, with those lips of his wrapped around his cock. He could bend Sherlock right over the back of the chair and fuck him senseless.

Of course, Victor instead gives in to his own nature and pushes Sherlock into the chair, nudging his feet apart with his own foot. He’d like to tear Sherlock’s shirt right open, but 

Victor suspects that’s one of those things that’s only sexy in films (besides the fact that Sherlock would protest, both loudly and long). Victor settles for traditional unbuttoning.   
His knees protest as he lowers himself to the floor, but he wants Sherlock first frustrated, then sated.

Victor only allows himself one fleeting moment of appreciating the look (aroused and nearly undone) on Sherlock’s face. Any longer and it’ll be over before he’d like. He doesn’t waste any time in undoing the zip on Sherlock’s trousers and pulling his hard, leaking cock out of his pants, but he does take his time in sucking Sherlock’s cock, slowly pulling the tip into his mouth, then working his way down.

This is normally the point at which Sherlock is grabbing fistfuls of Victor’s hair and tugging haphazardly as he writhes and intermingles Victor’s name with curses. Victor loves it, but he finds that he’s enjoying Sherlock’s usual exclamations as he’s under lock and key. Sherlock gasps out a warning, in keeping with his usual, and Victor pulls away so that he can relish the look on Sherlock’s face as he comes.

“You want to bend me over the back of this chair and fuck me.” Sherlock’s eyes are half-lidded, his voice deeper and just slightly gravelly.

“Perhaps,” Victor’s knees are sore and he’s only half-hard, and he’s too old to be attempting to push himself up off the floor. Of course he’s also too old to fall asleep on the floor, but that may be an inevitability. He lays back and unzips his own trousers, pulling his cock out and stroking himself until he’s hard.

“Victor,” Sherlock is obviously trying for a commanding tone, but there’s a breathlessness that betrays him. “I could get down there and suck you off.”

Victor slows, though he doesn’t take his hand away from his cock. “You could.”

“Or I could ride you.”

The lube is in the bedroom, which is a logical yet infuriating place for it to be. Victor sighs, buttons his trousers, ignores how ridiculous he looks with his cock jutting out, and very carefully sits up in order to very carefully bring himself to a standing position. 

He sincerely hopes that the shaky feeling in his legs is from arousal rather than the fact that he’s too old to have been laying on the floor. “On your knees,” he breathes out.

Sherlock, damn him, slides to his knees without a single wince, his eyes trained imploringly on Victor’s. Victor buries both hands in Sherlock’s curls, stops Sherlock from taking Victor’s cock into his mouth. “Tell me what you want.”

“I want you to fuck my mouth. I want you to come down my throat.”

Normally Victor would begin slowly, take his time and build up to it, but he’s waited too long, and he’s thrusting hard into Sherlock’s mouth as if he’s got ahold of his hips instead of his hair.

Sherlock is as enthusiastic as the day is long, but when he starts making stifled choking noises, Victor pulls out and comes on Sherlock’s chest.

“That’s impressive; you’ve managed to avoid the shirt.”

Victor feels unsteady, but there’s the matter of Sherlock still being in cuffs. “The key, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tilts his head to the side, the tip of his tongue darting between his lips. “I didn’t actually pickpocket Lestrade with the intent of enticing you into putting me in bondage, so…”

Victor stops midway through tucking himself back in. “You’re serious?”

**

By the time Victor has finished picking the lock on the cuffs and cleaning up, he’s relishing the rare moment of being tangled up with a Sherlock who is both sated and tired.

“Lestrade probably won’t even notice the handcuffs are missing…”

“Yes, he will. If you like handcuffs, we can find some on the interwebs. Ones that I won’t have to pick the lock of.” Victor groans. “I’m knackered; I need to work out more often.”

Sherlock merely snuggles in more closely. “If I had known the outcome of pick-pocketing Lestrade, I’d have made sure to get his key.”

“So you’re implying that I’m the kinky git in this relationship.”

Sherlock yawns. “Clearly.”

“I’m not the one who stole the cuffs.”

“I told you; I didn’t plan for this. You speak as though I’m manipulative.”

“Sherlock, if I had even a modicum of energy right now…”

“You’d shag me senseless?”

“I’d…spank you or something.”

“And you say I’m the kinky one.”


End file.
